"My father's here. I came to lend my support."

"Since when does he ask for it? Men like yer faither cannae be trusted. They're ruinin' the Great Glen, dae ye ken whit I mean? Him, an' a' thae bastards like them that selt their namesake's land. Let them spend their money in hell, says I."

"Grrraaah!" Air wheezed from my chest as I was hoisted clear off the floor by two burly, auburn-furred arms that wrapped around me from behind.

Old man MacDonald shook his great head and went back to work.

"Zachary Wallace, returned to us from the dead!" He put me down, spun me around, and embraced me again.

The last time I had seen Finlay True MacDonald, he was a skinny runt, with freckles and wild burnt-orange hair. No one ever called True by his real first name, his middle name, passed down from his late mother's side, being far more interesting. We'd kept in touch for a while after I'd moved to the States, and always called each other on birthdays, but it had been a good ten years since I'd seen a current photo.

The imposing giant with the auburn ponytail who stood before me now was six-foot-five and heavily muscled, weighing close to 260 pounds. "Jesus, True, you're as big as a friggin' horse."

"Aye. An' listen tae you, wi' yer snooty American accent, ye sound like ye're talking' oot o' yer nose. Ye're no runt any mair, I see, an' by God, it's guid tae see ye."

"I hear you've been working out on the oil rigs. What happened to the career in the Royal Navy?"

"Had my fill. Her Majesty's Navy wis guid enough tae train me tae work in atmospheric dive suits, an' the pay in the private sector's a whole lot better."

"I didn't know they made dive suits large enough to fit the likes of you."

"Aye, well, it can be a squeeze, right enough! Have ye ever been doon in one?"

"I climbed inside one once. Every step was like carrying a ton of bricks."

"Probably one o' thae auld JIM suits. We use nothin' but WASPs an' the new Newt Suits on the rigs nowadays. Both have thrusters that propel ye along. Much easier on the legs. Now I spend four hours a day, nine months a year skimmin' the bottom o' the North Sea, checkin' the lines an' doin' repairs. High stress, but the pay's guid, so I cannae complain. Lots o' folk in the Highlands are barely makin' it these days."

"How long are you off for?"

"Another three an' a half weeks. Then I'm back for four months, or until the winter seas get ower rough."

"Guess you heard about my father."

"Aye, an' every pub frae Lochend tae Fort Augustus's toastin' his name. Tourism's been doon ye ken, thanks tae the whole terrorist thing. Maybe the trial'll drive some business this way. That, or the new resort."